St Augustine or, The Realization of Truth
by Little Red Rose on the Valley
Summary: D&D/Ernest Sinclaire x MC. After Mr Sinclaire storms off his own party, Lady Susan comes to find him on the yard


" _Why, then, does truth generate hatred, and why does thy servant who preaches the truth come to be an enemy to them who also love the happy life, which is nothing else than joy in the truth—unless it be that truth is loved in such a way that those who love something else besides her wish that to be the truth which they do love. Since they are unwilling to be deceived, they are unwilling to be convinced that they have been deceived. Therefore, they hate the truth for the sake of whatever it is that they love in place of the truth. They love truth when she shines on them; and hate her when she rebukes them."_

 _~ Confessions, Book 10, Chapter 23_

* * *

Ernest felt like screaming, shouting until his voice was hoarse, but he contained himself on the grounds he had humiliated himself enough tonight. No need to feed the likes of Theresa Sutton with more babble to spread through the city.

God knows she had enough already.

He breathed heavily and tried to loosen his tie, in hopes that it would help the flow of air through his throat.

If the simple fact of upholding this travesty of a party while he would rather be doing just about literally anything else, including touring an apiary farm covered head to toe in honey, was not irritating enough, that… that… _thing_ who the Fates had the sick pleasure of making a Duke had the damned idea to crash it.

What was the sick obsession of that man with him? It was going on years, even before the death of his wife, that the Duke trailed behind him, like a demon who could not be exorcised. It would not make Ernest hate Tristan any less, but it would make the exercise less taxactive.

Perhaps if he had not came without an invitation, the esquire might have contained his temper, he might have thrown a respectable, composed, _adjusted_ act for the night. Yes, the _coup de grace_ had been a courtesy of Miss Sutton, whom he also had no intention of inviting, but the Duke chirped his patience enough before.

Though, to be fair, he had placed great expectations on tonight. He had hoped he could prove, to his peers, to himself, to _her_ , that he was capable of doing _this_ , being a standing member of polite society, to live up to the training he received as a boy.

He wanted to reinforce that first image Lady Susan had of him when they first met, on the road to Grover. Of the staunch nobleman to her county peasant. Out of spite, yes, all their encounters were in some way humiliating to him, but also because, in his head, this was the kind of man she desired and respected.

Now, would be better, he considers, to be taken as a bumbling, wimp of a man or as someone who threw tantrums and conniptions left and right? Those seemed to be his options at the moment, perhaps he ought to cut his losses and invest in one of those personas.

The season had already started, and people would soon notice Lady Susan. Not only a dashing, young, ludicrously wealthy heiress, she was also highly intelligent, sharp and the very envy of Helen of Troy. She was a wild bird, he could not cage her, he did not want it, but he could convince her to stay of free will.

He could, too, curtail at all chances her contacts with possible competitors. Ernest had to hand it to himself. Sitting her between Mr Marlcaster and Mr Chambers was resourceful of him. Marlcaster was an engaged idiot, and while the esquire held appreciation for Mr Chambers, he was hardly blind to where his preferences laid.

Hence the also very convenient invitation to Mr Konevi, the Sephardi gentleman who seemed to be quite taken with Chambers.

He could not help but think it was going all so well until he lost his nerve and fled to the gardens. God, he was pathetic.

If it was not enough, he also left Lady Susan alone with the leering Duke.

That thought brought him another wave of anxiety. Lady Susan was inside his house, surrounded by a horde of useless ninnies and a rapist disguised as a peer of the realm.

He jumps to his feet and turns to race inside once again, but as he looks towards the house once more, there stood the very same woman he intended to protect, her eyes shining from the lights of his porch.

"I never understood why we hold the social season so late in the spring. I would much rather to face the heat at the fields, where it is windy, or to wash my feet on the river, than in the stuffiness of London." Susan says, leisurely fanning herself. "That is to say, I know in the times of old, the landowners were needed at their estates during sowing and harvest, but the idea the likes of the Duke of Karlington to labour in any way makes me laugh."

Ernest looks deep into her eyes and tries not to disclose the dejection he felt on the corners of his heart in saying, "Is your party not to your satisfaction, Lady Susan?"

"On the contrary, Mr Sinclaire, send my regards to your cook. I am yet to find such a tasteful roasted meat." She closes her fan and walks over to the shade of the tree, where he currently stood. "Perhaps it was the herbs. You would not know what they use, would you?"

"I do not take much attention to those details, Lady Susan, I apologize." The esquire punctuates his apology with a nod.

She hummed, unaffected. "Of course, I did not think you would. Foolish of me to ask. Tell me, Mr Sinclaire, what do you like to eat?"

The blond man scoffed. "From our earlier exchanges, Lady Susan, I was led to believe you detested to 'beat around the bush', so to speak."

Susan smiles, amused. "Indeed, I do not favour this kind of behaviour, but I am nothing if not adaptable. I did not think you would appreciate if I came running and fretted over your hysteria."

He frowned. "I do not have hysteria, Lady Susan."

She chuckled, sitting on a bench he had installed years prior for reading on days of intense heat. "What would you call it then? Or would you rather me believe your urgent errands consist on circling around a tree and mumble to yourself?"

The brunette tapped the seat next to her, inviting him to join her. He complies with her request, but the slight pout do not subdue.

"You see, Mr Sinclaire, only because I have been taking under my responsibility your regular releases for the past few months, does not mean I cannot be of help in other areas of your life." She places her hands on his, and he cannot contain a shy smile to spread on his face.

"I am a very capable and, dare I say, forward woman." The brunette continues. "I understand your wife's death might be a delicate subject for you, especially if Miss Sutton's word is to be taken at face value, and I also understand the Duke's presence is particularly unpleasant for you. I will not press you into details.

"Know that, however, I am here if and when you want to talk about it. I said it before and I will say it again, I do care for your well-being, and it stands regardless of both of our desires to wed at the season's closing."

She caresses the sides of his face. "Much as I appreciate your callings for our… nightly activities, I would not mind to heed your way for other business."

Ernest smiles widely at her, his eyes glinting. "I am so very sorry, Lady Susan. I am a fool."

She chuckles. "What for, Mr Sinclaire?"

"I once thought you were beneath me, I though you to be some bold coquette who was trying to bite more she could chew." He breaks eye contact, ashamed of himself. "The truth is you are an extraordinaire woman. I came here to brood like a petulant child, and you had the grace to come and get me, to console me, and to offer more consideration I can possibly make myself worth."

Lady Susan smiled at the man, and boldly kisses his cheek. "It serves you not to doubt me again. Shall we return to the party?"

Ernest stood tall and offered the woman his hand. "It would be my greatest pleasure, milady."

Susan took his hand and they walked into the house. For the remainder of the night, her hand did not leave his own, and a smile was never seen away from his features.


End file.
